


Schneekoenigin

by MyriadMusings



Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst, Gen, Introspection, headcanon heavy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27467122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyriadMusings/pseuds/MyriadMusings
Summary: A collection of short pieces about Winter Schnee, her thoughts, her feelings, her memories, and her life.
Relationships: Clover Ebi & Winter Schnee, Jacques Schnee & Winter Schnee, James Ironwood & Winter Schnee, Maybe some implied relationships, Qrow Branwen & Winter Schnee, Weiss Schnee & Winter Schnee, Whitley Schnee & Winter Schnee, Willow Schnee & Winter Schnee, Winter Schnee & Penny Polendina
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	1. Waiting

In the frozen room, far away from anyone else, Winter waits.

Her aura has depleted. Her body has been bruised, broken, and beaten. Her destiny has been shattered before her very eyes. Her sister has run. They’ve all run.

_She’s not allowed to hope that they’ll escape, but she does. All of them._

When the alert on her scroll updates, removing Qrow’s face from the lineup, she’s actually disappointed.

_She doesn’t know what she’ll do when it updates again and Penny is added in his place._

Winter waits, freezing and shuddering and in pain and with the corpse of a woman she had been getting to know for months on the ground a few feet away, and she knows she’s useless. What did it matter? What did any of these years mean, if all she has to show for it is nothing?

_Nothing nothing nothing. Just like what Jacques would imply. Like what he would say._

Winter Schnee was nothing but a name, a shell, a heart that beat only because of broken promises and empty hopes.

_She can’t even cry._

On the worst night of her life, Winter waits.

_It’s all she’s ever been able to do._


	2. Maintenance

Spiegelscherbe was getting dull again.

With a soft sigh, Winter sits down, dislodging Eisapfen from inside the sabre, setting it aside on her desk. She doesn’t particularly enjoy weapon maintenance, but it’s necessary. Her blade must be sharp and poised to kill, at all times.

She takes the grindstone she uses as a paperweight otherwise off of her desk, sliding it along the edge of the blade. Winter remembers when she used to dual wield sabres, back when she was still in the Academy. A small, almost imperceptible smile plays on her lips as she remembers swinging both around, dancing circles around Tourmaline as they sparred.

She was younger, then. Still the heiress. Still trapped.

Winter had hardened, like the stone in her grasp. She stopped dancing and dodging and started attacking head-on, with no holds barred. She traded the second sabre in for a smaller weapon, one that she could hide and use if necessary; relying on two weapons had left her in unfortunate circumstances before and she wasn’t keen on repeating those experiences. Winter became a soldier, and gave up what was necessary.

Even if she did miss the free, fun feeling of whirling around, swinging twin blades with almost careless abandon and joy.

_There’s no joy in war_ , she reminds herself, even as she grips the stone so tightly that her fingers start to ache. _**There’s no joy in being Winter Schnee.**_

And yet, her heart ached to, just one more time, spar the way she used to. To take out Eisapfen next to Spiegelscherbe and, despite the differing weights, spin and kick and glide and dance, untouchable like the wind...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanons:
> 
> Spigelscherbe: German for 'mirror shard'. The name of Winter's sabre, and a reference to the Snow Queen tale.
> 
> Eisapfen: German for 'icicle'. The name of Winter's small hidden blade.
> 
> Tourmaline: One of Winter's teammates back in her academy days (Team WLNT).


	3. Dancing

_One, two, three..._

Winter raises onto her toes, en pointe, breathes in and begins to move. She travels across the room, spinning slow and fast, legs rising and falling, keeping in time with the music until it changes.

Her ears pick out the beat immediately, and she switches from ballet to a solo quickstep routine, spinning an imaginary partner around the room. Slow, slow, quick-quick slow...

She can hear them talking, but focuses on the music as it changes over and over, jive, waltz, cha-cha, tango, Viennese waltz, and Winter changes with it. The world around her is swept away as she travels, carried by notes and beats and counts.

Not a foot out of place. Not a hand out of position. As the last strain of song is played, Winter, just sixteen years old, feels happy.

There's a small scattering of applause. Willow is there, clapping with a faraway look in her eyes. Jacques looks satisfied, as he is whenever she's perfect. Perfection is the minimum. He doesn't applaud. Her teacher nods and has nothing major to say, so Winter tunes her out as well.

She tunes them all out.

So many things in her life were taken from her, her sense of safety, relaxation, trust.

They wouldn't take her joy. She wouldn't let them. Even if it was just this one, simple, little thing.


	4. Sonne

With a name like Winter, she supposes it’s not surprising that most people think she’s born at the end of the year, when everything dies. It would fit her, she supposes. Cold. Unyielding. An end, or maybe a beginning. The darkest time of the year, when all one can do is the same tired routine in the hopes that better days are waiting.

It comes as a surprise, usually, when she tells people that she was born in mid-July. If she tells anyone.

On the outside, it doesn’t fit her at all. Pale skin, white hair, an ice sculpture come to life with a heart and demeanour to match. Winter looks, in every way, like her name.

But she hates that time of year. Hates it with all her being.

When the sun shines in the middle of the summer, it soothes her. When she feels the warm rays hit her skin, she feels as though the icy shell surrounding her might melt and she might be set free. She knows it will never happen. Nothing short of the sun itself crashing into the world could break what she had spent a lifetime crafting.

She tells no one that her favourite colour is orange.

She never breathes a word about how she sometimes takes a moment, just a second or two, to admire the way the blossoming or fading light paints the sky and the clouds outside her window as the day begins and ends.

 _What’s in a name?_ she wonders all too often.

The answer is always _Too much._


End file.
